Story Excerpt
The Light of Darian
by Sean McMullen
Had it not been for the burglary, the authorities might never have even noticed the house. The intruder’s name was Hal Blake. He had been neat and systematic, bypassing the off-the-shelf security system with a valid code. For a few minutes he had apparently been disappointed, because he took nothing. The house just went through the motions of being lived in, rather than being a home, and there was nothing of obvious value to be seen. Then he collapsed.
Leo Reeves was an intern technician from Forensics, so Detective Inspector Lucia Zaral was neither surprised nor off ended when he arrived at her office wearing a tracksuit. His tall and unusually lean body suggested that he ran the London Marathon every year, yet he had a strange, hesitant walk. It was as if he lived in fear of losing his balance.
“You’re probably wondering why I sent for you,” she said before Reeves could speak.
“Yes, Inspector.”
She stood, displaying the general look of a flamenco dancer wearing a leather jacket and jeans, then waved Reeves to a chair. Coming around her desk, she sat on the edge, picked up her note screen, and opened Reeves’s personnel file.
“Eight years at the Lunar Farside Observatory,” she read. “Currently partway through a year of gravity acclimatization, doing forensics certification at London University, and working as an intern in the Forensics annex.”
“That’s me,” Reeves replied.
“You have an impressive list of post-graduate diplomas and certificates . . . but the PhD in astronomy is what interests me. Tell me about it.”
“It was on spectrographic analysis techniques for exoplanet atmospheres during occultation events,” Reeves began.
“In other words, you know about planets outside our Solar System?”
“I suppose so.”
Zaral rolled her eyes.
“You have two papers in Nature and another in Science, your PhD was nominated for an international prize, yet you only suppose you’re an authority?”
Reeves just shrugged.
“Dr. Reeves, the degree on my wall qualifies me as a medico, but I’ve been given a case involving exoplanets, as the newsfeeds call them. I really would appreciate having someone like you as a consultant.”
“I only know forensics.”
“And I know nothing about astronomy. You would have the rank of Acting Constable in Homicide Division while on the case.”
“Homicide Division? What have exoplanets to do with murder?”
“I’m investigating an unusual death, and your advice would save me from wasting a lot of time with Professor Wiki. Have you heard of exoplanet hobbyists?”
“They’re amateurs who set up alien environments in fish tanks.”
“That’s right. Almost. Two days back, a Vital Life Signs monitor flagged a serious medical incident. Emergency Services sent a paramedic drone, which could not gain entry to the premises. Uniformed officers arrived and did a follow-up with a forced entry drone. They found a deceased male wearing a tracksuit and balaclava. Soon after the officers entered, they became dizzy and confused, and short of breath. They were extracted, the house was sealed, and they sent for a hazmat team.”
“As one does,” Reeves commented.
“It turned out that the carbon dioxide level in the air was lethally high. Once he was located, the owner told Emergency Services that he was deliberately maintaining a high level of carbon dioxide in the house, and that people needed breathing units to work in the place. He was arrested and charged with endangering Emergency Services personnel.”
Zaral called up a domestic security video on her wall screen. It showed the infrared image of a figure wearing a balaclava. He was searching a living room with a small flashlight, and after a short time he collapsed.
“Can I see a breakdown of the air in the house?” asked Reeves.
“Watson, display the gas analysis data for the Parker case,” Zaral called to her AI. The figures appeared almost instantly.
“Oxygen 15 percent and nitrogen 74 percent—that’s low but not medically dangerous,” said Reeves. “The argon reading is elevated, but it’s an inert gas. Carbon dioxide . . . 20 percent! Breathe that for long enough and you die.”
“It gets better,” said Zaral. “A pump was keeping the internal air pressure down at twenty-five inches of mercury, and there were filters, gas tanks, and electronics to maintain the atmosphere in the house as a death trap.”
“No way,” said Reeves.
“Explain?”
“The air pressure is no lower than that of, say, Denver, and a million people live there without hazmat suits. The carbon dioxide level is the only real problem.”
“But why make the house so dangerous?” asked Zaral. “The owner said he was doing epigenetic experiments involving extrasolar planets. I think he’s a dangerous nut—but keep that to yourself.”
“The house is not an intentional deathtrap,” said Reeves.
“It killed a burglar.”
“The burglar’s death was misadventure. Where exactly is it located?”
“Here in London. Camden North.”
“Then it’s more or less at sea level. A sealed house and pump to maintain the low air pressure would cost thousands to set up, and likewise the gear to keep the other gases at those levels. If you want a death trap, just boost the carbon dioxide level with a commercial gas canister. It would be a hundred times cheaper and still kill people.”
“Why would the owner set it up like that in the first place?” asked Zaral. “He keeps banging on about his epigenetic research.”
“I can’t speak for him, but a world does exist with an atmosphere identical to what is in the house. It’s about forty-five light-years away—the moon of a gas giant planet orbiting a star called 47 Ursa Major.”
Zaral slid from her desk, nodded, and very nearly smiled.
“Thank you, Dr. Reeves, you have passed my test,” she said.
“Test?”
“When you meet Mr. Parker, the owner, you will see why I needed to do a weirdo check on you. Would you like to act as a constable for a couple of months?”
“What will it involve?”
“Just following me around and taking over if anyone tries to blind me with science. Interested?”
“Could I check out the Camden North house with you before committing? Just to get a feel for the work.”